


The History of Us (Hasn't Been Written Yet, But I'm Willing to Get Started)

by augopher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cafe owner Derek, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Hale Family Feels, Historian Stiles, M/M, Pining, Post Season 4, Stiles gets Derek a gift, Stiles-centric, stiles and derek are friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/augopher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills' Sesquicentennial was fast approaching, and Stiles, as part of his job at the Beacon Hills Historical Society, had been given a project for the exhibit. His gallery was to showcase the prominent families in the town's history. His efforts to not include the Hale's (For Derek's sake of course) were in vain, and a little side project for Derek as a means of confessing his undying love turned into a mess- </p><p>From there Stiles could only make things worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The History of Us (Hasn't Been Written Yet, But I'm Willing to Get Started)

Stiles sat at the desk in the sub-basement at the Beacon County Historical Society, his place of employment since the summer between freshman and sophomore years in college. While other students had more glamorous jobs such as bartender or barista (hell, he knew a couple people from his classes that worked as exotic dancers all through college), he started as research intern. Don’t get him wrong, it was a paid internship to start; it paid ten dollars an hour. He had friends slaving away at minimum wage or less.

Where was he going with all this? Oh yeah, sub-basement. Right.

So, the staff soon realized his research skills and ability to retain all kinds of information from the history of male circumcision to the wild world of mythology and folklore made him way more qualified than any of their research interns. The result of his ADHD inflicted, over-curious mind? A promotion to full historian before earning his Bachelor’s degree, complete with a seven dollar an hour wage increase, which would go up to a $40,000 starting salary upon completion of said Bachelor’s degree. Pretty sweet gig if you asked him.

All of which led him to where he sat now, two months away from graduation, in the dark and frankly, uncomfortably cold sub-basement of the historical society. He’d say it was a dank as well, but that would prove disastrous for the storing of the hundreds if not thousands of books, map cases filled with newspapers, and photographs stored within. There were two rooms in the Southwest corner dedicated entirely film, negatives and microfiche: One strictly for storage, and the other for viewing. It was much more pleasant in the viewing room.

He stretched his arms high above his head, adjusting the white cotton gloves on his hands before returning a book to the stacks. This room always gave him the creeps. No matter how much time he spent in it, he always felt like a character in the opening minutes of a horror film in here, as if any moment the razor-edged ruler wielding maniac would jump out from the shadows and hack him to bits.  _Get a grip, Stiles. Your imagination is way too active. You know that, right?_

His current research project had consumed his life. Beacon Hills’ sesquicentennial was quickly approaching in May. Each of the society’s historians had a project relating to the town’s history. What was his? Showcasing the town’s prominent families over the years, excluding the founders of course. That was the curator’s pet project, and Stiles would be damned if he stepped on his boss' toes for that one.

Stiles looked down at his model for his gallery in the exhibit. So far, he’d filled about three-quarters of it with all the families that he could think of, adjusting, of course for proper signage and informational blurbs (those sure had been fun to write. ‘Did you know? Augustus Lovingham III died when he was struck by lightning while fishing.’) It wasn’t that he’d researched every prominent family in the area and just didn’t have enough material. Nope, that had not been the case at all. There just happened to be one family he was hesitant to put on display, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that over half of them were werewolves. What the hell did that say about his life that the existence of actual werewolves didn’t make him bat an eye?

No, he’d avoided the Hale’s like the plague for one reason and one reason alone. Okay, maybe two reasons actually. One, there were only three of them left, one lived in South America (Buenos Aires to be exact), another was happily (well Stiles wouldn’t necessarily say happily) locked up in Eichen House’s ‘dangerous patient’ ward, and the other...had a perfectly respectable job of local business owner of the wildly popular Beta Bistro. What was reason two? It was reason number one in Stiles’ book actually.

He was deeply, maddeningly, and tragically in love with Derek Hale. Why tragic? Because fuck if Stiles was ever going to get the nerve to tell him.

It wasn’t as though the two men never spoke. Hell, they spoke just about every day. Stiles’ best friend, Scott, a werewolf himself, served as alpha in the local pack. Derek was one of his betas. Yes, Stiles told him the restaurant name was too tongue in cheek. The man, the smug bastard that he often was, didn’t care. The point was, he and Derek were close friends. They hung out and not just at pack nights either. Really, achieving that full wolf transformation had done wonders not only for Derek’s self-esteem but his people skills. You’d think all that would make it easier for Stiles to confess his undying love.

Nope. Stiles was a coward.

He could take on a giant alpha with a baseball bat, survive a possession by a demonic fox, but he couldn’t just walk up and say, “Hey Derek, I’m kinda desperately in love with you. Wanna grab some dinner?” That would just be too adult of him.

“Fuck.” Stiles groaned. He’d have to include the Hale’s, the realization of which made him sick to his stomach. Most of the remaining family had been killed in a house fire when Derek was sixteen, or if he wanted to be totally accurate-- arson, set by hunters. Who were hunters? Well, they hunted things obviously, supernatural things to be exact.

Deep in his gut, Stiles was afraid showing these pictures, the family history, Derek’s family history would just push the man over the edge. Maybe he could warn him not to come see the exhibit.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding? They were friends, good friends at that. Derek would come see the gallery just to support Stiles.

In short. He was fucked, and not in any of the ways he’d like.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Two weeks into his research on the latest family for the project, Stiles was about to go out of his freaking mind. To say he’d thrown himself into learning about the Hale’s with more gusto than the other eleven families for his gallery would be one Hale of an understatement.  _You did not just...Stiles, you are a fucking moron._  Great, he’d been reduced to puns. Yep, Stiles was pretty sure he was losing his mind.

So, here’s the thing. Stiles had heard on more than one occasion that Derek looked like his mother. He vaguely remembered Alpha/Mrs. Hale, and yeah, he guessed he could see it. However, Derek also looked like his great-great uncle Richard, two third (or was it fourth?) cousins, and his great-great grandmother Evelyn. Now it wasn’t like he was a walking doppelgänger or anything like that. Just the family resemblance was more than apparent, and it did things to Stiles. Okay?

Three days ago, he’d spiraled off into a forty-five minute daydream in which he and Derek were La Belle Epoque era lovers, just at the sight of an ancestor in a tailcoat and top hat. It was beautiful, and wholly distracting.

Still, he needed his caffeine fix, and stopping by the Bistro on his way to work gave him plenty of time finish his breakfast and coffee on the bus ride. For obvious reasons, food and drink were not permitted outside the break room at the Historical society.

“Good morning, Stiles.” The cashier greeted. “Your usual?”

“For the coffee yeah. Today, I’d like a ham and cheese croissant too.” He glanced at his watch and realized he’d left his house almost an hour early. Yep, he was spending way too much time on this project if he couldn’t even read a clock right in the morning. “Say, is boss man in by any chance?”

She took his credit card and swiped it through the machine. “Corner table, working on  _The New York Times_ ’ crossword.”

“Thanks, Stacey.” He waited for his sandwich and large Americano with an extra shot of espresso and four sugars before strolling over to Derek’s table. The man didn’t look up from his puzzle when Stiles sat down.

“Table’s taken, Pal.” Derek said, pen clenched between his teeth.

“Why Derek, I’m hurt.” Derek looked at him with a tiny smile, and be still Stiles’ beating heart.

“Hey, Stiles. Thought it was some annoying college kid.”

“Technically...I am an annoy-”

“You know what I mean. There have been like five of them this morning alone asking to sit at my table. They always talk too much.” He tapped his pen on the paper.

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you kind of described me.” Stiles took a bite of his croissant.

“Yeah, but… I enjoy your brand of annoying.”

“I’m touched. Honestly, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.” Stiles deadpanned.

Derek shrugged and looked at his crossword, brows knit in deep concentration. “Hilary’s guide.”

Stiles coughed, choking on his coffee a little. “I’m sorry what? Taking up creative swearing?”

Derek chuckled. “No, Stiles. It’s a clue, and I’m stuck. It will unlock a huge section, but I can’t get past this one.”

“Ah. I see.” Stiles said, chewing another bite of his breakfast sandwich. “Is that Hilary with two ll’s or just one?”

“One. Six letters.”

“Norgay.”

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him as he filled in the clue, which turned out to be correct.

“Sir Edmund Hilary’s sherpa, Tenzing Norgay, the first two people to climb Everest.”

“Thanks,” Derek says between a sip of his coffee.

The man drank it black. How in the hell could he stand it? Stiles would never figure that out.

“So, not that I don’t enjoy your company in the morning, but it’s usually a five minute thing. You even have a plate today.”

“Ah, work is kicking my ass, Man. I thought it was eight fifteen when I left this morning,” he pointed to the large clock hanging above the fireplace in the center of the room, “which it very clearly isn’t. Thought you might like some company.”

“Thanks. So how’s work? I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“The project seriously takes up all of my time. I was there until nine last night.” He swallowed a large gulp of coffee. “And, well I might of sort of… hadtoaddyourfamilytothegallery,” Stiles finished in a rush to get all the words out at once, hoping maybe, just maybe, Derek didn’t hear him.

Derek nodded. “And this bothers you why? I know the impact my family had on the town. We set up the preserve after all.”

“Well you know...digging through the history, putting photos on display. I thought it might bother you.”

“It’s your job, Stiles. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, but a deeply researched and thoughtful exhibit. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy; I can handle it.”

 _Yes you are_. Stiles blushed, no joke, he blushed. “Aww. Thanks, Buddy.”

The butterflies in his stomach must have gotten into his Adderall stash that morning, because wow, his stomach was going crazy for the rest of their impromptu breakfast.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Stiles stared at his gallery model. He thought for sure he’d be up against the deadline trying to finish the thing. Instead, three weeks out and he could not think of a single additional thing to add. He had his presentation with the director in a week and a half. What in the hell was he going to do with himself until then?

Then he got an idea, and if there was anything to be said about one of Stiles’ ideas it could go like this:

  1. He got an idea.

  2. It took root in his brain, festering until it was all he could think about.

  3. He became way too invested in said idea.

  4. It got out of hand, growing three heads like Cerberus.

  5. No one appreciated it, and some even got angry at the idea.




So naturally, he regressed to steps one through four immediately. Whether or not step five happened would remain to be seen.

If he had a week and a half to kill, he thought why not try and make a little side history for Derek, sort of a ‘Because I love you, this is me declaring my feelings for you’ gift? Stiles pulled some of his favorite resources and began compiling what he decided to be the best images and historical records of the Hale family in Beacon Hills.

The problem with old books, is that great care had to be paid, especially when making copies. Their bindings were fragile. Opening the book all the way could cause serious damage, and the light from the photocopier was also problematic. However, one of the perks of his job was access to top of the line scanners, cameras, and printers.

So he went to work, and after a few days had amassed, what he considered to be a beautiful collection starting with the first Hale’s to settle in the town: Alfred and Lillian Hale, who arrived from New York with their six children in the spring of 1878. Alfred opened a logging company in what is now the preserve, made a fortune, and then retired. Eventually, the family turned from logging to property development, and at one point owned practically half the town.

How did they survive the Depression? Gold.

Anyway, Stiles felt pretty good about his little side project. If he chickened out and couldn’t give it to Derek, he could always present it as a possible fall exhibit in the main gallery. See, it wasn’t wasting company time. He was researching the history of Beacon Hills. It was just for his own personal project.

Whatever, he’d have two copies made.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

His meeting with the director went fantastic. The man raved about his visual layout and use of humor as a means to educate. Stiles was given the greenlight to start getting his gallery ready.

He loaded all his images onto his flash drive and headed over to the print shop. His visit had two purposes. One, he needed to pick up his gallery prints, and two, he needed to get an estimate on the printing price for a bound book.

“Hello Mr. Stilinksi,” the owner said.

“Mr. Stilinski is my dad,” he joked, “but I am good.”

“What can I do for you today?”

“I need to pick up the prints you have ready. Got to get them framed and all. Two weeks until the big fiesta.”

The owner, Mr. Smiley believe it or not, seriously the name fit the man perfectly, grinned at him. “Absolutely, Stiles. I have about seventy percent of them completed. This sesquicentennial is keeping us all busy. My hands are tied with projects for you all, signs and banners for the celebration, flyers and coupons. I even think I have pamphlets to make to.” He leaned forward and whispered. “To be honest, I had to sent all the paper jobs to my brother. He runs the other family shop in Oroville. I refused to send out the gallery work though. Best to keep the expensive, fragile projects on site, you know?” He disappeared into the back of the shop.

Stiles drummed his fingers on the counter as he called out. “Absolutely. Say, I know you are swamped, but how is your brother’s shop for backlog right now?”

Mr. Smiley returned with three solander cases. “Thinking of taking your business elsewhere?” He joked.

“No, I just have a personal book project I wanted to have ready as soon as possible. I know you’re past capacity.”

“Well, I have about an hour while I wait for a few projects to finish printing. Gotta give my seal of approval. Why don’t you come on into my office and we’ll see if we can’t put together an estimate and preliminary project together?”

So that is how Stiles found himself sitting with Mr. Smiley designing a book. The man seemed genuinely excited and willing put the thing together for him, and ‘Absolutely no, Stiles. I can’t send this project out. I was good friends with Mr. Hale. I would be honored to help you with this for Derek.”

They spent the rest of the hour pouring over the material Stiles brought, with Mr. Smiley vowing to work on it in his free time, because not only were the images and material interesting, but he needed a distraction from work that did not involve much physical activity. Apparently, Stiles was not the only one being run ragged in the planning of the town celebration. He left the store with a spring in his step and decided to call up Derek and Scott to see if they wanted to grab dinner.

Scott was busy. So Derek and Stiles indulged in greasy cheeseburgers down at Nellie’s Diner (established 1942) over on main street. Their curly fries and malts were to die for.

 

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Beacon Park (created 1958 with land set aside by four term mayor Thomas Carter) was packed, literally packed with people. Crowds made Stiles nervous. It was a social anxiety thing, you know? Still, he was an adult. He would manage. At least the weather was perfect. Sunny but not too hot, not a cloud in the sky with a light breeze. Just perfect.

He yawned. The whole staff had been up late the night before putting finishing touches on their exhibit, which sat behind the main stage. His father and several other officers and firefighters from both departments helped erect the mobile gallery. Real walls, not tents, were built and proper shading given by slanted panels at the top of each section. The designer who planned the layout nailed it, as the arrangement of gallery façades had been perfectly arranged to capture the right amount of natural light. It was beautiful, and he couldn’t be more proud of what his colleagues and himself created. Mostly though, he was proud of himself. He was finally able to put his name on something and say, ‘This, I made this.’

Another thing that had him smiling? The book turned out beautifully, so much so that Stiles had been inspired to talk to his boss about collaborating with a writer to work on a book about the history of the town. What? It was a fascinating town, even without mentioning the supernatural, though that sure explained a lot. The curator had been enthusiastic and offered to help him find a writer to work with. It was great, because he had no projects in mind whatsoever for the next year. 

By some small miracle, despite the heavy workload and fried brain, he passed all his finals with a 3.0 average for his last semester of undergrad. He’d even applied to the master’s program as a part time student so he could take two classes a semester while working full time. All in all, Stiles’ professional life was going awesome.

His love life on the other hand? Non-existent.

Now that he’d taken the huge step and made Derek that ridiculous present, he had to give it to him. Well, if he chickened out, Stiles could always keep it in a box under his bed where it would never see the light of day, and he could continue to pine in silence. Yeah, that sounded like a perfect plan-- ignore the feelings until they eventually went away. Always worked before

He fiddled with the cuffs on the rolled up sleeves of his button down. Since he and his fellow historians (okay and the interns) were on hand all day to give presentations, mini lectures, and just to answer general questions, they all had to look presentable. This, was a far cry from his usual work attire. Unless he needed to greet the public (which was like maybe once a month), he wore jeans, t-shirts, and Converse to work just about every day. Now, he even wore a bowtie and nice chinos. Yes, that’s right, he, one Stiles Stilinski, had put himself together with minimal effort. He’d even brushed his hair into a more polished quiff than his usual brand of beadhead meets spikey. If he had to admit it, he looked good.

“Look at that man’s hair, Mama. He looks silly.” A little girl pointed to the finger waves one Edward Samuelson, son of the mayor, and notorious playboy. “He has girl hair.”

Stiles chuckled. He'd found young Mr. Samuelson quite the amusing character to research too. He walked the rest of the exhibit to admire the hard work of his co-workers. Some of the photos were gorgeous. The gallery about the changing landscape of Beacon Hills had amazing pictures of old buildings, now torn down. Someone hand colored a picture of the old mill, and it was easily one of the most beautiful photographs he’d ever seen. He stepped forward and scrutinized the tag underneath it. All the pictures on display were for sale, proceeds going to the food shelter. Two hundred dollars? He could swing that. This print belonged in his living room, well his and Scott’s living room.

He pushed through the crowd to the sale’s table. Though the park was crawling with town residents, it was early enough that he had a good chance for the piece to still be available. From his wallet, he pulled out his credit card, holding it up for the volunteer to see.

“One art please.”

Stiles, in his trademark fashion, flailed as he was startled. “Jesus Christ Derek, are you trying to kill me?”

Derek shrugged, both hands in his pockets. “Sorry.”

Before Stiles could turn around and tell him not to worry about it, his turn had come, and Hallelujah, the photo was still available.  _Ha! Not anymore suckers. Find your own art._

He walked back to his post only to find Derek perusing his gallery, and oh shit. Stiles was not prepared for this. However, he’d made sure not to include any pictures of any family member who perished in the fire, instead focusing on the early twentieth century when the non-supernatural dealings of the Hale’s were more interesting than the whole ‘werewolf thing.’

“You’ve made history funny. A lot of people find it too dry to enjoy.”

“Um thanks I think.”

Derek smiled at him. “It’s a good thing.”

 _Don’t smile at me like that._  “Oh I know. Just, well you know, I’m not used to my quirks being useful.”

“Their loss.” Derek patted him on the shoulder. “Which piece did you buy?”

Stiles felt his stomach churn at the contact, but in the best way.  _I love you. I mean it. I practically worship the ground you walk on. We should get together and be disgustingly cute to make the rest of the pack sick with how much in love we are._

“Uh Stiles?”

“I’m sorry, what?” The look Derek gave him didn’t help any. It was almost as though he knew exactly what thoughts had just passed through Stiles’ mind...and of course he did. Fucking werewolves. Although...he didn't seem to mind Stiles' rapidly beating heart either. Huh, how about that. “I um bought the photograph of the Old Mill.”

Derek nodded as he inspected it. “Huh, Tim colored this? Nice. I went to school with him.”

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Later that night, the pack and some affiliated family members gathered at Derek’s loft to continue the celebration and also congratulate Stiles’ gallery. The book, wrapped in the finest paper he could find, sat in a bag by the door, practically screaming Stiles’ name the whole night.

So how did he choose to drown out the noise? By getting a little tipsy. It seemed to be working.. His nerves had settled at least, and thanks to his liquid courage, he was totally going to give Derek his present along with a well rehearsed but absolutely rambling declaration of love.

Slowly, guests began to filter out until only Stiles a few of the pack remained, Derek excepted since you know, he lived there.  _Steady Stilinski. You have this._

“Hey Derek?”

“Stiles.”

Why did he do that- make questions sound like statements? It made Stiles want to kiss the smug grin off the guy’s face. Right, gift giving. “I um…” He pulled the book from the bag. “I got you this, well made it is more accurate.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “Why?”

“Um...well...I don’t fucking know, Man.”  _Coward._

With tentative fingers, Derek tore at the ornate paper and fancy ribbon. When all the wrapping had been pushed aside, he stared down at the book as though the thing weighed a ton. Stiles knew it didn’t. It had only maybe a hundred pages. It couldn’t be that heavy and besides-- werewolf.

“What is this?”

Shit. That was not the response Stiles wanted. Not at all. _Damn it, Stiles. This is why you shouldn’t have ideas. They suck_. _He hates it. Oh my God, he hates it. Way to fuck up your friendship, loser._  “It’s um...I made that for you. It’s made of what I thought was the best history about your family. There are newspaper articles, photographs. There’s even a couple pieces of sheet music, not that  you play an instrument or anything, but your great-great aunt Eleanor wrote music for her piano students, and it’s beautiful. I’ll have to bring over my old keyboard sometime to show you. It’s...I thought you would like to have something to remember them by, see their faces.” Stiles felt dangerously close to tears, which only grew worse when Derek dropped the book on the counter like it burned him and rushed out of the loft.

Stiles’ head spun. How did he screw this up? The idea was born from a place of great love, and hell if Derek hated it, he could have said thank you at least. When he turned around, he could not only see the rest of the pack staring at him, he could feel them staring at him. That was worse. What a fine time to be too buzzed to drive.

He left his keys in the bowl by the door where he’d dropped them when he first arrived and walked out into the night. The bowtie he still wore felt like a noose; he ripped it off and shoved it into his pocket. Maybe the three mile walk home would clear his head.

It didn’t.

Instead, it gave him time to nearly have a panic attack, tearing himself to pieces in his head. Whether he believed it or not, he launched silent insults at himself like ‘You are going to die alone,’ ‘Derek actually liked your quirks, told you so on more than one occasion. How the hell can you screw that up,’ and the worst ‘No one is ever going to want a colossal screw up like you.’

By the time he arrived to his place, he found he didn’t want to sleep there or face Scott’s pitying face, and continued on towards his dad’s place, arriving a little after ten. By some small mercy, the television in the living room was on. It meant his dad was at least home, which was fantastic because he didn't have his keys.

When he tried the door, he found it unlocked, and entered the house as quietly as he could, toeing off his shoes by the door. Not quiet enough. His dad poked his head up from where he lay on the couch. “Stiles? What are you doing here?” He watched his son sway on his feet a little. “Ah, been drinking, and it’s much easier to walk here from downtown than to your place?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, well yes, I’ve had a little to drink, and yes I walked, but not from downtown.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” His lips quivered. “Maybe tomorrow? Yeah.” Every step towards the stairs felt like torture.

He was tired of being alone, and seriously, he felt certain that maybe, just maybe Derek at least liked him as more than a friend...perhaps? Fuck, who was he kidding? Stiles was a glutton for punishment, falling in love with people who would never want him that way.

“Is this about Derek?”

How the hell? Stiles turned around to face his dad, rubbing his forehead to relieve some tension. “How do you… how do you know about that? I never told you. I never told anyone.”

His father sat up. “Son, not only am I a seasoned police officer with highly developed detective skills, I’m also your father. I’ve seen this look on your face before. Right after the lacrosse game with Lydia.”

Stiles scrubbed his face with his hands. “Fuck.” He groaned. “How do you know it’s because of Derek?”

He walked over to Stiles and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I’ve also seen the way you look at him. Same expression you used to have with Lydia. Son, you’ll find someone who’ll love you with as much tenacity as you give them.”

Stiles nodded and wiped his nose on the back of his hand (when had he started crying? Fuck if he knew). “I thought I had.”

“Well then if he can’t see that, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know. Doesn’t make me feel any better though. I’m just, I’m just gonna stay here a couple days if that’s okay with you.”

His father ruffled his hair. “Of course it is. You know I miss having you here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles grumbled as he climbed the stairs, collapsing into his bed face first. Having adjusted to the bigger bed at his place, this one was just too small now.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

“Would you give it a rest? I’m coming, Jesus tap-dancing Christ.” Stiles called as he hurried to answer the door at his dad’s house. When he opened the door, he was surprised to find Scott standing there looking worried as hell.

“There you are. I’ve been worried.”

“Scott,” Stiles said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I sent you a message telling you I was crashing here for a couple of days. What is it?”

“What did you do to Derek?”

Stiles was not in the mood for this. Frankly, nursing heartbreak was not how he wanted to spend his week of hard earned vacation from work. “What did  _I_  do? I gave a freaking gift that, clearly, he was not impressed with, but your non-existant concern for my feelings is touching, Scotty.”

“What? What about your feelings?”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “What about my-- You know what, forget it. What’s wrong with Derek?”

“For one, he hasn’t been back to his place since Saturday, when you know, he stormed out. No one has seen him in two days.”

 _Back to brooding and grumpy Derek I see._  “You’re the werewolf, Scott. Did you try tracking him?”

“Well yeah, of course, but he’s not in his usual places, and Liam and I can’t track his scent.”

“Scott, if you can’t find him and his car is at his place, and you don’t pick up the scent of Wolfsbane anywhere, he’s in the preserve. Deep, deep in the preserve. I have to get ready for work.”

“I thought you were on vacation.”

“Change of plans. There are some things I need to clear up post gallery you know?”

It took a few more minutes of coaxing to convince Scott, and another ten to shower and dress before walking out to his car. Thank you, Dad for having a deputy drop it off for him.

He drove over to the Historical Society building in total silence as he tried to figure out what about that book wasn’t good enough. Derek liked to read; the man should have been over the moon that someone made that kind of effort for him. Stiles had a real habit for going out of his way for Derek, and if that didn’t just scream ‘I love you,’ then he didn’t know what would.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” The curator asked as he walked in.

“Yeah. Trying to avoid someone. Figured I go learn some stuff in the archives. Enjoy the fact they can’t come in.” Stiles joked as the elevator doors closed, shutting him off from the rest of the world while he took the five floors down to what had become like a second home to him.

In all fairness, he’d left the room kind of messy when he left work on Friday. It seemed only right he straighten up to repay him basically slacking off for a week on the company’s dime. He didn’t leave it looking like a pigsty, okay? There were just some books that needed to be reshelved, and he needed to double check that he’d stored all the climate dependent media back in the cold room before that turned into a disaster.

Stiles would be the first to admit that over the last couple of days, he may have forgotten to take a couple doses of Adderall. He used ‘might,’ because honestly, he couldn’t remember. That usually meant yes. Naturally, that meant, instead of storing the film immediately, he had to look through it all first.

What? He liked learning. It comforted him.

Two boxes and three hours in, he pulled a negative slide from the box and found himself staring at the photo on the index. In an instant, he took back everything he said about his new art. In his hand, he held the most beautiful photograph he’d ever seen.

Whichever reporter had snapped it at the annual 4th of July Picnic in 2006 deserved a gift basket every damn day of the year. Stiles resolved to send him one as soon as he could. He stared at the Hale children, all four of them, and holy hell, how did he forget there had been four of them? Derek sat on a quilt in the grass, smiling bigger than Stiles had ever seen with Cora clinging to his back like a koala. Laura, kissed his cheek, as joke presumably, but Derek didn’t seem to mind. His lap was full of a squirmy mass of Aurora, the baby and the only one of the Derek’s immediate family who wasn’t a werewolf.

Stiles read the original caption of the photograph:

            _The children of Samuel and Talia Hale enjoy family time at the picnic. Clockwise from bottom. Aurora (5), Derek (16), Cora (11), and Laura (19)_

With the way the picture looked, Stiles knew one thing to be certain. No one in the picture knew the photograph had been taken.

His heart apparently had a death wish, because he scanned a digital copy of the negative, and after storing the film, made an all too familiar trip.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Stiles entered the loft a day later, large wrapped gift in hand only to find Derek sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket (The same fleece blanket Stiles had bought him for Christmas the year before- He tried not to read too much into that). In his lap, however, sat the book Stiles had made. Stiles froze by the kitchen, and strangely enough, Derek hadn’t even seemed to notice him. The man looked absolutely wrecked, and suddenly everything became crystal clear.

Derek hadn’t hated the gift. It had thrown him for an emotional loop, and he couldn’t handle it. Fucking hell, Stiles felt like an asshole, especially considering what he held in his hand now. He lost all courage at that moment, simply placing the frame on the floor where he stood, and leaving without so much a word said.

The whole way home, Stiles fought tears. This time it wasn’t heartbreak, but damn, his heart sure hurt. He’d done that; he’d turned Derek into the mess the man was in. All Stiles had wanted to do was be nice, give him something special, something he knew Derek did not have.

He crashed into his house, thanking whatever God, mythical creature, or space alien responsible for the empty house. Those tears he’d been holding back came pouring down his face the moment his back hit the sofa cushions. None of this was going the way he wanted, but he’d do whatever he could to salvage things. Derek’s friendship, relationship or no, was more important than nothing.

Some time later, and Stiles couldn’t say how much, he heard a tentative knock on the door. He was not expecting Derek to be standing there at all, and shit, Stiles' face was definitely tear-stained, his eyes bloodshot. Great, just great.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked.

Him? Derek was worried about  _him_? What the hell?

“I’m sorry.” Stiles couldn’t even meet Derek’s eyes, not that it mattered, because he didn’t even have time to react before he found himself held tightly in a crushing hug. “Wha…”

“Thank you.” Derek sniffled into Stiles’ shoulder. “I’d never seen that picture. There was no picture of Rory in the book you made, and I had forgotten her face...I just miss them all...so much. It’s beautiful. I hung it in my bedroom where I can see it as soon as I wake up.” Suddenly, it was as though he remembered that Stiles was human, and in fact quite breakable, and released him. “Why would you do all that for me?”

Stiles wiped his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. “I just wanted to give you something that shows who you are, where you came from-- that there were people that loved you, that there is someone who still does more than...anything else. Look, I know you’re in a good place now, but you’re still alone, and fuck I know how that feels. Believe me, I do. It sucks, but I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to do something nice for you, well two things I guess.”

“Do you mean that?”

Stiles scratched his brow. “What? That I wanted to do something nice for you? Of course I meant it.”

Derek took a step forward so they were close enough to touch. “No, the part about someone who loves me more than anything?”

Derek looked so earnest so painfully afraid that Stiles’ words had been in jest or part, that Stiles wanted to scoop him up in his arms and give him the world. The knot in Stiles’ stomach threatened to overtake him. He just couldn’t get the words out, choosing instead, to squeeze his eyes shut and simply nod, terrified of the possible rejection he’d see in Derek’s eyes.

“Hey.”

Derek’s voice was smooth as honey and whisper soft. Stiles wanted to melt into it, and whoa, that was a hand cupping the back of his neck. Was this real life? Stiles thought he heard Derek say ‘look at me,’ but his mind was not listening. He couldn’t focus on anything at the moment to be honest, until he felt lips press against his own; the sensation of stubble against his skin, thrilled Stiles.

Could a kiss be like a black hole, sucking all the air from the room? Stiles felt as though it might, because he could hardly breathe. He didn’t want to. For once, Stiles’ mind was absolutely silent.

Look, it wasn’t like he’d never done this before. He’d been to college; he’d had hook-ups. They just never satisfied him the way Derek was right then, and they were only kissing. Stiles couldn’t even fathom how deliciously he'd fall apart if this went further. 

His hands acted on their own impulses, with minds of their own. One curled itself in Derek’s hair pulling his kiss even deeper. Now that Stiles knew just how great the man could kiss, he knew he’d never get enough. The other hand wrapped around his waist, fingers grazing the bare skin of Derek’s back beneath his shirt.

It seemed Stiles’ hands weren’t the only ones acting on their own accord. When Derek’s hands moved from around his waist to his ass, he couldn’t help the appreciative moan that escaped his lips, only to have it be swallowed whole by the heat of Derek’s mouth.

Somehow, they moved, and Stiles crashed into the back of the couch. Not even the sudden jolt was enough to detach either from the other’s lips. This was a craving that they both needed fulfilled, and fuck, Stiles’ hadn’t even considered that what he thought might just be 'I like you, Stiles' on Derek’s part could be just as deep as how he felt. The realization of that, made his head spin, or maybe that was just his rabbiting pulse. He neither knew, nor cared.

All he wanted in the moment, was to touch as much of Derek as possible. Apparently, he was not alone in that desire.

Derek’s fingers hovered at the buttons on Stiles’ shirt, barely touching them for a moment, a consideration, a request.

“Everything I am was yours a long time ago.” Jesus. In a matter of minutes, Stiles had been rendered an overly romantic mound of putty to be molded under Derek’s fingertips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve hoped to hear that.” Derek said against the skin of Stiles’ neck, where his lips savored the feel of the pulse beneath them, intoxicating, inviting.

Fingers raced down the remaining buttons, and Derek pushed off Stiles’ shirt. This only set off a chain reaction as they desperately tried to make it to the stairs, leaving a trail of clothes behind them like fabric breadcrumbs to find their way back to each other in case they lost the way.

How he didn’t trip on a single stairs, Stiles would attribute to Derek’s steadiness. It sure wasn’t his doing. Stiles’ legs were rubber beneath him; he couldn’t fathom how he was still standing. Hell, he could hardly breathe, and his heart kept trying to leap from his chest and into Derek’s.

A light shove sent him tumbling into the bed, and now he really wished he was in his own place in the bigger bed.

There was something to be said about watching someone undress you, watching them undress themselves. Stiles wasn’t sure what that something was, but it was definitely...somethi--

“Oh fffuck.”

He took everything back. Watching that brief striptease from Derek was nothing compared to how the man looked as he devoured him, staring up Stiles body through those dark lashes. In fact, he had to look away lest this all be over embarrassingly quick.

There was none of that awkward, ‘So uh, do you want...I top’ crap he found with hook-ups, the stuff that killed the mood every damn time. No, it was as though Derek just knew, and it made everything better because of it.

Stiles had died. That had to be the only explanation for this, for how being with Derek felt like finding religion. How this glorious and heady blending of two souls, set each of Stiles’ nerve endings aflame with every unshed word he’d kept inside for over four years.

Each little nip at Stiles’ neck and collarbone Derek made, sent him closer to the edge. That last push came when Derek, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear, made his feelings known (as if they hadn’t been apparent already).

“You’re beautiful, Stiles, and I love every bit of you.”

Stiles would love to say he saw stars at that moment, or hearts or whatever, but that wouldn’t be enough. He saw the center of the god damned universe, brilliant and immense as he came. It was too much, just too much. He could have passed out for all he knew, because the next thing he noticed was the way Derek collapsed on top him, the heavy weight of him pushing Stiles into the mattress.

He was boneless, weightless; he couldn’t move, and it seemed neither could Derek, both content to lie there ignoring the mess they’d made of their wrecked bodies. Stiles pushed out from under him, and pulling the sheet over both of them, they curled up, Stiles drifting into the best sleep he’d had in years.

Sometime later, he heard the front door open and remembered their trail of clothes. His dad was a smart man; he’d know immediately what happened. If it had been anyone else in bed with him, Stiles might have panicked.

Not this time... This time, Stiles couldn’t be bothered to care.

  


**Author's Note:**

> come visit me over on tumblr. I don't bite; I promise  
> http://captaintinymite.tumblr.com/


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